


Another lie from the front lines

by Elisexyz



Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Illya Kuryakin, Illya Kuryakin Whump, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29140515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: “I need help,” he gets out, quickly, grimacing a little without meaning to. “Floor caved in and now I’m stuck.”
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142537
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Another lie from the front lines

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fill for the "impaling" prompt on day 4. What? Today it's the 10th? I mean, did you seriously expect me to be on schedule with this? We all know I will still be finishing these in March (...or April. Possibly May) LOL.  
>  Also, yeah, still torturing Illya. I promise it won't be like this the whole month though LOL, next one should be Napoleon's turn. Gaby's too at some point if things go according to plan. ~~when do they ever tho~~  
>  The title is from "Mars" by Sleeping at Last, enjoy!

At first, the only thought that he can focus on is that he must _not_ , under _any_ circumstances, throw up: pinned as he is he would probably end up chocking himself, and right now he can’t think of a less pleasant way to die.

Then, slowly, he manages to ground himself back into his current situation, registering the dust not yet completely cleared around him, the chatter coming from the radio fallen somewhere on his left, and—oh, right, the fact that the floor caved and he got himself impaled on a rod.

When panic starts crawling its way up to his throat he tries to take a deep breath, to steady himself, but that proves to have been a bad idea as the movement pulls at his wound, dragging a growl of pain out of him and not helping him calm down in the least. His vision swims, he isn’t sure if because of the pain or because he is concussed – both, both sounds about right –, and he has to brace himself against a fresh wave of nausea.

Alright, alright. He needs to focus.

As soon as he figures his stomach can take it, he tries to raise his head up, to take a look at whether he is already on his way to bleeding out or not. He doesn’t seem to be bleeding too much, fortunately, and the rod might have missed anything vital, but he should probably put _something_ over that wound—he doesn’t think he has anything at hand. He would have had his hat, if Solo hadn’t kept pulling it over his eyes like the overgrown child he is, prompting Illya to smack his hand away and leave the hat behind for good measure.

It's then that he actually registers the radio and the voices coming out of it, a reminder that he didn’t come alone, that he just needs to call for help.

He forgoes trying to understand what exactly they are saying, figuring that his attention span probably can’t take it, not when he has to carefully reach out, stretching his arm as far out as he can without tearing himself apart. It still hurts and the radio swims in front of his eyes a few times, but eventually his fingers brush against it and he yanks it in his direction, greedily pulling it to his chest.

The first thing that he registers is Solo complaining about Switzerland and how it’s ridiculous that they have never been sent to Paris yet and _I’m just saying that we_ deserve _a trip to Paris, that’s all_.

They are in a Swiss compound, Illya remembers then, he was sweeping the second floor when the ground caved in and he woke up flat on his back and unable to move.

He misses the first time Solo leaves the line open, so he has to listen to Gaby replying that she’d actually much rather being sent somewhere in Spain, that Paris is too much of a cliché, and he does his best to focus and keep himself ready to cut in as soon as she’s done talking.

He's pretty sure that he lost track of his thoughts at least once before he can finally get a word in.

“I need help,” he gets out, quickly, grimacing a little without meaning to. “Floor caved in and now I’m stuck.”

There’s a beat of silence after he has stopped talking. “ _Stuck?”_ Solo echoes then, his concern not too well concealed behind his confusion.

Illya hums. “I got impaled on a—thing.”

“ _Thing?”_

Solo’s tone is beginning to edge towards impatience, and Illya doesn’t snap at him only because he doesn’t have the energy to, more preoccupied with searching his foggy brain for the right word and coming up short. He resolves to give him the Russian term for it, because English is a stupid language anyway.

“ _Hmm, that would be a rod I think, and Jesus_ Christ _, Peril_ —” He cuts himself off, getting off the radio for a moment, but Illya has nothing to contribute. “ _Okay, you had the second floor, right?”_ he eventually asks, sounding a little more composed.

“Yes.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Not too deeply, that would hurt. No throwing up.

“ _Alright, I’ll be right there. Gaby, you go get help, okay?”_

“ _Way ahead of you_ ,” she quickly shoots back, her breathing laboured and the sound of running evident underneath her voice.

Solo says something else, but Illya completely misses it, too busy thinking that perhaps Gaby shouldn’t be _running_ , that if his floor caved what’s to stop the rest of the building from crumbling down under their feet? They should probably get out. He would very much like to get out too: the dust is suffocating. He should at least tell them to keep close to the walls, that should help, right? He was walking right in the middle of the corridor—that was stupid of him. The compound looks shitty, of course it was going to crumble to pieces, he should have figured. They probably shouldn’t have walked in to begin with. Solo did say something about how the damn place looked ancient and ready to die on them—Illya always figured he’d die somewhere dark and cold, with a bullet in his brain if he was lucky, but this is insulting. And stupid. It fits, because he _was_ stupid. He still doesn’t like it. It’s like dying because he slipped and hit his head, only—not. But it’s the same kind of stupid.

“Peril? Are you down there?”

It takes him a few moments to connect the voice to the words to their meaning to the fact that he needs to answer that yes, he is, in fact, down there feeling sorry for himself, and even when he does realize that, his attempt at answering comes out raspy and way too quiet for Solo to hear.

“Peril?”

A moment short of taking a breath and trying again, he remembers the radio.

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he thinks he sees a glimpse of dark hair above him he adds, in ushered Russian: “Stay away from the edge.”

“ _Of course, of course_ ,” Solo immediately says, like it’s obvious that he wouldn’t be that stupid – it’s anything _but_ obvious.

Illya thinks of saying something about his horribly accented Russian, as he normally would, but the thought slips away from him before he can do anything with it.

“ _Give me two minutes, I think I know the way around to get to you_.”

Well, at least his plan wasn’t to just _jump_ in. Illya wouldn’t have put it past him.

He thinks he gave him some kind of affirmative answer, but he feels wobbly and tired and he doesn’t think he thought of much while he waited. In fact, the next time that he remembers being present to himself is when he’s gasping in pain, a hand pressing down on his shoulder barely preventing him from shooting up and doing some more damage.

“Sorry, sorry,” Solo quickly says, with a grimace. “I’m just trying to stop the bleeding.”

Right. Right, that is just common sense.

He takes a breath, nodding and attempting to steady himself, even with his vision swimming and his nausea rising once again. This is so stupid.

“So, who said something about this whole place being on the brink of collapsing?” Solo muses, dramatically. He’s keeping steady pressure on Illya’s wound and one hand firm on his shoulder, looking at the collapsed ceiling with the face of someone that has no awareness of how inappropriate it is to be smug right now. Illya wants to strangle him. “Oh, right—I did!”

Illya exhales through his nose, his brain a jungle of insults, but what eventually comes out is just: “Your Russian sucks.”

Solo snorts, amused. “My Russian is great. But I can stick to English if you want.”

Illya would very much like to say that yes, that would be great actually, if only to be an asshole, but the mere thought of trying to understand, let along _string together_ , even half a sentence in a language different than his own makes his soul threaten to leave his body. He really doesn’t have much of a choice, and he ends up muttering a ‘No’, which Solo takes with a satisfied grin.

Illya doesn’t have time to be annoyed, as for a second he thinks he caught sight of something behind Solo, a shadow _moving_ , and a rush of adrenaline almost pushes him up, his hand stretching out as if he had any chance of pulling him out of the way like _this_ —then he blinks, the shadow is gone, and Solo is staring at him in a way that looks decidedly worried.

Illya unclenches his fist, letting go of him and casting another wary glance beyond him. “Did you finish your sweep?”

Solo blinks at him, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “After you told us you got yourself _impaled_? No, I didn’t _finish my sweep_ , you lunatic.”

Illya huffs. He knows, somewhere in his head, that Solo is kind of making sense, yet— “There could be someone—”

Solo snorts. “It’s just us. And killer rods.”

That earns him a glare, into which Illya puts as much feeling as he can manage. “Someone could arrive and shoot you in the back,” he insists, because it’s true. And he would be precisely no help, in his current position.

“Oh, please, don’t be such a ray of sunshine, it’s blinding.” Solo shakes his head, looking entirely too fond for Illya’s tastes. This is a serious matter, there is nothing to smile about. He doesn’t like that face. He _doesn’t_. “Gaby is getting back-up, we’ll be fine,” Solo adds, gentler. His hand is still on Illya’s shoulder, drawing circles with his thumb.

Illya finds that he has a hard time swallowing, and it takes him a few moments too many to recognize the fear deep in his throat, threatening to choke him. He doesn’t want to die here, and he normally wouldn’t have the _time_ to worry about it, to think that he might, but there is someone else keeping him from bleeding out and keeping an eye out for potential threats and another someone running to get him back-up, so all he can think is that this is stupid and wrong and he might have been prepared to die cold and alone _before_ , but now he is neither of those things and he just wants to cling to this, to the hand on his shoulder and the voice surrounding him, telling him to—

“—breathe, come on, nice and slow—yeah, alright, that’s better—it’s alright, I’m sure help will be here soon and we can get you out of here—come on, we have been in worse situations—”

Solo is smiling at him, his thumb still rubbing circles and a fistful of his shirt held tight between Illya’s fingers, and he doesn’t stop talking, even when Illya’s eyes drift away and he can’t focus on a word of what he’s saying, only holding onto the relief he feels hearing his voice. He thinks he knows, somehow, that it isn’t a good idea, but he’s dizzy and the world is getting blurry, so it’s easy to let go a little, to begin to sink away, the voice still there, still steady—

The world shakes, and there’s something patting his cheek, not all too gently either.

“Hey, hey, I need you awake, alright? No sleeping on the job, come on—”

_Cowboy_ , supplies some helpful part of his head. Everything hurts and he’s tired, but there’s a panicked edge to Solo’s voice when he keeps calling out for him, and it nags him until he pushes his eyes open, the instinct to find out what exactly is wrong stronger than his need for sleep.

“Alright, great, thank you,” Solo sighs, his face the picture of relief as he smiles and his hand trials down from Illya’s face to his shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “Just stay awake until our back-up is here, alright?”

Illya hums, thinking that he can do that and not finding any real will to formulate a better response. But Solo is looking at him like he’s scared, and it’s weird and wrong enough to warrant a big swallow and a sharp intake of air. “I can do that,” Illya says, firmly enough, even though his head is throbbing and his eyes are watering and he knows better than to make promises he is not sure he can keep.

But then Solo’s smile is back, a little wavering and soft around the edges, and Illya figures—well, he will just have to try extra hard.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


End file.
